Inglourious Muddbloods, Starring Arthur the Apache
by OhSoIntoCats
Summary: England takes the Axis and Allies to combat wizard fascism in Voldemort's Britain. Featuring England as Aldo, Russia as The Bear Jew, Germany as Stiglitz, Voldemort as Hitler, Lucius Malfoy as Landa, Snape as Von Hammersmark, and Hermione as Shoshanna.
1. Arthur The Apache

I do not own Harry Potter, OR Axis Powers Hetalia, OR Inglourious Basterds. Wish I did, though.

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"My name is Lt. Arthur Kirkland, and I need eight nations. We're going to be dropped into Britain dressed as muggles. We're going to be one thing and one thing only — killing Death Eaters," said England to his men. Not too long ago, the nations before him had actually come to an agreement on something for once — that fascism was bad.

Unfortunately for England, though, his wizard society was succumbing quickly to it. Forget the fact that Britain's wizard allies didn't seem to care. The British government itself seemed to be turning its wizard community a blind eye. So, England figured, if you needed something to happen, you had to do it yourself.

"I'm sure all of you didn't come all this way to teach these Death Eaters lessons in humanity, and they definitely don't need lessons in magic. They don't have any humanity because they're the foot soldiers of a muggle hating, mudblood-murdering homicidal maniac. That's why each and every fucker we find who's stupid enough to put the the Dark Mark on themselves is going to die, and going to die through muggle means.

"Back in my colonizing days, I learned a little something. It's called an Apache resistance, and that's exactly what we're going to be doing in Britain. We will be cruel to the Death Eaters, and, above all, we will be using nonmagical tools of war. Through our technology they will know who we are.

"And they will find the evidence of our technology through the bullets and shrapnel and dismembered corpses of their comrades. And the Death Eaters will not be able to help themselves but to be in awe of our war machines and our monstrous cruelty. And the Death Eaters will be sickened by us, but most of all, they will be afraid, afraid of the technological advances the muggles have made when they weren't looking, afraid of the technology muggle sympathizers can and will have at their disposal."

Half of the nations before him listened solemnly, but the other half grinned, showing too many teeth.

"Oh, so you think it's all fun and games? By joining me, each of you take on a debt to me, personally. Each and every one of you under my command owes me one hundred Death Eater scalps, from one hundred dead Death Eaters, and I want my scalps!"

The grins only grew wider. For once, England smiled back at them.

"These Death Eaters need to learn that muggles are a force to be reckoned with."

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	2. The Boy Who Lived

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry Potter OR Inglourious Basterds OR Axis Powers Hetalia. The things I would do if I did, though…

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"I have heard a group of Snatchers were decimated."

"Yes, my Lord."

"How?"

"I-I'm not sure, the wizards on the list escaped, and of the Snatchers there was only one survivor —"

"You cannot expect me to believe that those loyal to the old regime would be so skilled with killing curses. They're so dedicated to their silly little rules with their silly little mercy, they would barely be able to aim."

"Sir… they were not killed by the killing curse. They were torn to pieces by… by…"

"What sort of creature?"

"It doesn't appear to be any sort of creature. We think it might be some sort of muggle device. The dead were full of metal pieces."

"A muggle device? Killing my men?"

"Yes, we can't think of any way a spell would be able to cause that much of that kind of damage."

"They were not very thorough if they left survivors."

"He claims they let him live on purpose. They marked him and told him to tell us what he saw."

"They marked him? How?"

"You should see for yourself, my Lord," said Lucius Malfoy.

XXX

"No, watch, see, the scalp has a little bit of give, so you pull it like this, and _then_ you take the knife and go like this," said America, demonstrating a clean cut on the scalp of the freshly dead Death Eater where there had only been China's messy cuts before.

"Aiyaa, I get it, I can do the rest," said China, America grinning, this probably being the only time he'd ever get to show the four-thousand-year-old how to do something.

"All right then, if you need any more help though, don't be afraid to ask," said America, giving China back his knife. He walked off in the woods to find another snatcher's corpse, this one near Germany, who was sawing off another scalp with the skill he'd just learned from Canada. However, this one didn't seem to be quite dead, so it cried out weakly until Germany became annoyed enough with the sound that he slitted the snatcher's throat.

England watched them work, the forest smelling like gunfire and blood, a smell he remembered very, very well. He smiled, looking at the mangled corpses of Death Eaters. Wizards, with their clean little spells, rarely ever saw carnage like this. His team, though, were used to it.

The scene they left behind, bloodied, scalpless Snatchers looked all well and good, except for one thing. One of them was trying to crawl away.

"Canada," said England, and Canada looked up from his small collection of scalps for a moment.

"Hm?"

"Grab that one, the one crawling away, for me."

Canada picked up his knife.

"Don't kill him."

"Death Eaters need to die."

"Don't worry, boy, it's not like we're going to show him mercy," said England. Canada shrugged and walked over to grab the Death Eater by his shirt and drag him over to where England stood. the Death Eater clutched pointlessly to a stick, a former wand, shot to little more than splinters, that shot off magical sparks uselessly.

"Handcuff him," said England.

"I don't have any handcuffs," said Canada.

"Anyone have any handcuffs?" asked England, and all the nations busy mutilating corpses looked up at him in confusion. Damn, nobody had thought to bring handcuffs. And why would they? They were there to kill Death Eaters, not arrest him. "All right then, tie him up."

Canada obeyed, wrestling a piece of bloodied, mangled shirt from the Death Eater and tying his hands behind his back.

"Hey, Death Eater," said England, "What's your name?"

The Death Eater only stared back at England with now-soulless, fearful eyes.

"You're going to live, so don't worry about that. You'll even get to go back to your master. But, before I return you, I need to know. What's your name?"

"Evan."

"Evan… what?"

"Rhodes."

England smiled. "Well then, Mr. Evan Rhodes. Aren't you lucky, you're the only survivor of your little gang. So, smile, because you're going to be plagued with a little something called 'survivor's guilt.'"

The Death Eater's face tried to remain stoic, but England knew that he was actually taking in every word. So, he continued, "You do know Harry Potter, yes? Of course you do, you're here to find him, to capture him. And so, of course, you also know the legend of him, that he was the only survivor of his family, the only survivor of Voldemort's purges. Do you have any idea what that's like?" England thought for a moment. "Oh, I suppose, now, you will."

Canada was about to go back to scalping the remaining Snatchers, even though most of them had already been. Now that Germany had gotten the hang of it he was going through the rest of them very quickly while America showed Romano how to do it again, only grinning and teasing at Romano's verbal abuse.

"No, Canada, come over here. I want you to watch this."

Canada took a deep breath and walked in front of the only live Death Eater, right beside England.

"However, Mr. Evan Rhodes, when you learn how painful this survivor's guilt is, you might try to use a memory charm on yourself. And we, well, we can't have that. So," said England, finally taking his knife out of its sheath, "We're going to fix that."

XXX

Lucius Malfoy ordered a fellow Death Eater to bring in the surviving Snatcher, a young man whose eyes seemed to be staring at the far wall — no, at many, many meters beyond the far wall.

"What is the mark? Show it to me."

Lucius hesitantly brushed the Snatcher's bangs aside, showing the fresh lightning-bolt shaped scar there. For a moment, the Dark Lord himself almost flinched back at the sight of the scar, at the idea of the power of love in that scar that could destroy him.

"We've managed to heal all of his other wounds, but that, that would not heal, it wouldn't even fade. It must have been cut with an enchanted blade."

"So, these aren't muggles," said the Dark Lord, "These are wizards with muggle weapons."

"Yes, probably."

"Mudbloods," Voldemort hissed.

"Likely."

"Well then," said Voldemort, speaking now to the Snatcher, "These 'mudbloods' allowed you to live, did they? Why?"

The Snatcher swallowed, his voice quiet. "They wouldn't say… say why… they only asked, 'how does it feel to be the boy who lived?'"

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	3. Undesirables Numbers Four Through Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia OR Harry Potter OR Inglourious Basterds. Oh, if I did though.

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"Undesirable Number One," Harry Potter read in his head as he came across the poster at Hogsmeade. He knew that actually standing to take a look at the poster was dangerous, but for some reason, the number of snatchers they had run into in the past couple months had trickled down to nearly none.

Undesirable Number One, Harry Potter, reward raised to one-hundred-thousand galleons. Ron raised eyebrows at the new number. While the reward for Ron and Hermione, Undesirables Numbers Two and Three, had risen considerably since the last time they checked, it still wasn't nearly as high as Harry's. Some of the other Undesirables listed on the poster, numbers four through twelve, had higher rewards than them. Ron was about to snort in disappointment at this when a cloaked figure dragging a cello case walked between them and the poster and tore it down, rolling it into a tube. Harry, Ron, and Hermione tried to walk away from the poster as nonchalantly as possible. They tried not to draw attention to themselves as a small flood of cloaked figures, all carrying instrument cases, followed the first. Would-be snatchers, the three of them figured, if only in it for the money, though they'd never get that money as they had just managed to pass Undesirables Numbers One, Two, and Three without so much as a second glance.

XXX

As soon as England knew that he and the 'Mudlboods', as they were listed on the poster, were on a muggle street, England carefully unrolled the poster. The largest picture, of course, was Harry Potter, Undesirable Number One, with unhappy pictures of Ron Weasely and Hermione Granger just below.

This most recent version of the poster, though, had a new addition, in the form of a border of crude sketches, labeled "Undesirables Numbers Four through Twelve: Wanted Mudbloods." Number Four was the clearest, but was still only a cartoon sketch with a scowling face and gigantic, bushy eyebrows, and the pictures only went downhill from there. Undesirable Number Twelve didn't even had a sketch, the only the description of being an "American Mudblood with stolen invisibility cloak. Reward: 1,000 Galleons."

"Hey, I don't have an invisibility cloak," said America, peering over England's shoulder to look at the poster.

"Of course you don't," said England, pointing to another crudely-drawn face whose only distinguishing characteristic was its glasses, "That's you."

"Lucky number seven," said America, noting the number, "Awesome."

"Let me see," said Romano, grabbing at the poster. As soon as he recognized himself on a corner of the page, he nearly shouted, "Werewolf? They think I'm a werewolf?"

"I told you not to bite that Snatcher," said Germany, "And everyone quiet down, you never know who's listening."

As if on cue, everyone gave a cursory glance around to their surroundings, still only seeing oblivious muggles. Then, everyone returned their attentions back to the poster, various instrument cases bumping into each other as they did.

"They say I'm a woman, aru!"

"Part veela, hm? I never knew I made that sort of impression, but I suppose I should be flattered —"

"The Bear Mudblood… da, I like."

"I have the lowest reward…"

"Am I even on this thing?"

"Oh, you must be the American with the invisibility cloak!"

"American! They say I'm American!"

"Quiet!" Germany whispered harshly, and everyone shut up. England rolled up the poster halfway and read the line under the note Undesirables Numbers Four through Twelve: "Wanted for the brutal murders of upstanding pureblood witches and wizards." England snorted. They could have at least said that the "upstanding pureblood witches and wizards" had been Snatchers. The rewards had been jacked up to a ridiculous degree, though. They must have been having a hard time finding willing replacements for all the murdered Snatchers.

Good. Very good.

"So," said Germany to England, watching as he rolled up the poster the rest of the way, "That tavern we saw. The Hog's Head. How does it look?"

"It's full of shady characters. If our enemies are 'upstanding purebloods,' then we will fit right in there, won't we?"

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	4. Massacre at the Hog's Head

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia OR Harry Potter OR Inglourious Basterds.

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"I still don't get why you're not the one doing this instead of us," said America as England adjusted Canada's robes.

"Because somebody is liable to recognize me. As long as you two don't wear your glasses, they won't recognize you. All Germany has to do is leave his hair as it is and Russia can just take off that bloody coat of his. It's not like the survivors are going to be around anyway, and those sketches aren't worth shit except for mine," said England, struggling to find all of the robe's snaps. Russia had tried to figure out the robes himself and had ended up a tangled mess. Germany seemed to be the only one with the faculties to put them on properly. "So, just remember. America and Canada were sent to Hogwarts on the insistence of their Scotch mother back in the US. Russia is a Death-Eater sympathizer here to check on the situation in Britain. Germany is Russia's good friend from Durmstrang, and you all met while Canada and America were backpacking in Europe, as wealthy American graduates are wont to do —"

"I'm American, again?"

"Shut up, Canada," said England, finishing the final snaps, finally, the robe on straight.

"What else about us? What are our names?" asked Germany.

"Just use your human names. Nobody knows you by them. Canada, you be Jones."

"I hate you," said Canada, "I really do."

"And our histories?" asked Germany, "Surely we must have more detail —"

"You walk into the tavern and Canada and America happen to see one of their favorite professors. All of you stop for a chat. You should be able to set up the next rendezvous from there."

"That's not a history," said Germany.

"You are afraid to make things up?" asked Russia.

"Making things up as you go is how you get yourself killed. I want a history."

"You shouldn't need one. I got the impression from the Hog's Head that it's not the sort of place where people ask questions about each other," said England, "The story is just in case they do —"

"We're going by the i_impression/i_ that they are not the sort of people who ask questions?"

"My impressions are usually very good, Germany," said England, "and either way, you shouldn't be there very long. You should be fine."

"Usually," said Germany.

"You have a headmaster to meet," said England, smoothing out the wrinkles on Canada's second-hand robes, "Get going."

XXX

"Professor Snape! Fancy seeing you here," said America as he, Canada, Germany and Russia walked into the Hog's Head.

"It's Headmaster now," said Snape. That was the cue, as any witch or wizard who had been in Britain for more than a week would have known of the change in management.

"Headmaster, huh? How did you manage that? Anyone would kill for that position," America joked, sitting down at the table, the rest of the Mudbloods following suit.

"You have no idea," Snape murmured under his breath. "Who are your friends?"

"Well, you know Mattie, of course," said America, "And that's Ivan and Ludwig. We met in, um, Bulgaria."

Germany glared.

"W-wasn't it Bulgaria? I mean, geography has never been my strong suit —"

"Da, I believe it was Bulgaria," said Russia, smiling his usual serene, creepy smile. Great, he would probably insist that America owed him something after that. "At a quidditch game, actually. Ludwig and I were cheering for opposing teams, and while he was shouting he managed to spill beer all over me, and Matvey scrambled to clean me off even though he had nothing to do with it."

"The rest is history," said America, smiling, thinking, well, whatever quidditch was. "And enough about that," America hushed, "You know why we're really here. What's up with what?"

Snape leaned in, back away from the crowd of older Hogwarts students. "The Order does not trust me anymore after the events of last year, and I'm sure they won't trust any outsiders. For now, it seems you are on your own, and will likely stay on your own. From what I have heard, the Order does not approve of your methods."

"He who fights monsters —" Canada began, but never finished.

"Never mind that. Why are there so many people here?" hissed Germany.

"The Dark Arts and Potions classes canceled today. Bread and circuses, if you will," Snape said with disdain.

"We need to get out of here," said Germany, but Russia hailed the barman.

"Vodka. Straight."

The barman gave him a funny look.

"He's not from around here," said America.

"You don't sound like you're from around here, neither."

"Do you have it or not?" Russia nearly growled.

"All right all right, I'll see if I can find some," the barman grumbled and looked to his shelf.

"Why are you ordering a drink? We can't stay here!"

"What else do you do in bars? If we don't, we'll be suspicious."

"Anyways," America tried to continue, "Professor — er, Headmaster. You were saying?"

"I feel I must warn you that you're not very popular on either side of the wizard war. Mr. Potter's friends have heard stories of you and they don't like what they hear."

"Well, that's tough toenails," said America. "And —"

"Good afternoon, Headmaster. May I ask what is 'tough toenails'?"

"Mr. Malfoy," said Snape, and America turned to find a Hogwarts student with Germany's haircut standing right behind him.

"I would imagine as Headmaster you must be very busy."

"I'm allowed afternoons off, sometimes, too, Mr. Malfoy," said Snape.

"Oh, in that case," said Draco, taking the seat right between America and Snape. "Might I join you?"

"If you don't mind, I was speaking to some old friends."

"Old friends? They don't look that old."

"Former students," America offered.

"Former students," Draco Malfoy said.

"Yep, Mom said Hogwarts was the best school on the planet, so she insisted on sending me over a fucking ocean to get there. Right Mattie?"

Canada only watched as the barman brought a bottle of vodka and a shot glass, and after pouring a shot Russia insisted he leave the bottle.

"So anyway," said America.

"Oh?" said Malfoy, "Which house?"

"Slytherin, of course," said Snape, "Both in Slytherin."

"I would think I would remember them…"

"You never did make many friends outside of your own year, Mr. Malfoy," said Snape, who made that statement sound almost threatening.

"This one looks difficult to forget," said Malfoy.

Russia began drinking his vodka directly from the bottle, leaving the shot behind for Germany, who certainly looked like he needed it.

"Mr. Malfoy. I see you enough at Hogwarts itself. I'm not able to spend much time for myself, and I would like to spend it with old friends."

"And anyway," said America, "it's not surprising that you don't remember me. I didn't spend much time in the tower —"

And something poked America in a rather private place.

"Now, is that a wand, or are you just happy to see me?"

"It's a wand," said Malfoy, "I knew you had never been at Hogwarts. Slytherin doesn't have a tower — you're those international Undesirables. Prepare for the cruciatus curse of your life."

"Not so fast," said America, swallowing hard, gripping a pistol underneath the table, his finger not quite on the trigger, "you know those 'guns'? The wands that muggles use to blow each other's balls off?"

Malfoy stared him down, his eyes icy.

"Well, you've had one pointed to your balls since you sat down."

"Two," corrected Germany quietly, jabbing a pistol into Malfoy's crotch, "two guns."

Russia detached his lips from the bottle for long enough to watch where this was going.

"Stupid muggles and their stupid faith in their stupid machines —"

"I don't know," said America, "the last time I shot someone's balls off with a gun, it worked just swell."

Snape scooted his chair away from the table slightly, in defense of his balls.

"Well," said Malfoy, almost defeatedly, almost, and then glaring over to Snape. "Since we're all men here, we don't have many options but diplomacy."

"We do have one other option," said Germany.

"And what is that?" asked Malfoy.

Germany lunged. "Say auf wiedersehen to your Death Eater balls."

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	5. A Little Evil

Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia OR Harry Potter OR Inglourious Basterds. Oh, if I did, though.

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Germany was dead. Russia was dead. America, while not quite dead, was clutching at his crotch and letting out high-pitched yelps, so that was close enough. Headmaster Snape, however, by some miracle, was not dead. He appeared a bit shell-shocked, but he was most certainly not dead.

"Goddammit, where the fuck is Veneziano?" said England, opening up the blinds of the inn's room just a crack.

"Knowing him, he probably got distracted by a pretty girl," Romano grumbled.

"The best distraction," France agreed.

"We don't have time for that!"

"If you told him what happened to the potato bastard, he'll get here," said Romano.

"Be patient, cher, it's not as if they can die any more than they already are. They can wait.

England still kept watch at the window, America still crying in pain.

"Won't somebody shut him up?"

As Japan and China laid the bed's blanket over Russia and Germany's corpses on the table (though they were dead and couldn't get any deader, when they revived they would probably appreciate the conserved body heat), Snape walked over to the bed and took out his wand, casting the spell: _silencio._

America still grabbed at his balls and howled, but only did so silently. If this had been any other time, any one of them would say this was an improvement, but now instead they waited with baited breath for Veneziano to arrive, and watching America cry out silently only made everyone uncomfortable, so they chose not to look.

This was taking far too long. China watched the bodies that had been set on the table with care. Sometimes they would just get up on their own. Eventually, they would have to get up on their own. Hopefully, though, Italy would arrive, because they needed to look alive sooner rather than later.

Snape, after far too long standing, wand in hand, finally put his wand away and gathered up his wits enough to say something.

"They're all dead," he said.

"Yes, well, we're trying to fix that," said England, "It's easier than you're probably thinking it is."

"Draco Malfoy, all of the students in the Hog's Head, all of the patrons, Aberforth Dumbledore… they're all dead," said Snape.

"Oh, them," said England, thoughtfully, "That's certainly… probable."

"They killed so many innocents without a second thought," said Snape, his tone even, "Children."

"Yes, and it's given me quite a headache," said England.

"Hogwarts students," said Snape.

"Is it anything worse than what the Dark Lord has done?"

Snape thought for a moment, recalling the chunks of flesh that spurted out when bullets hit bodies. "Yes."

"Hm," said England, taking a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting it up. "Well, I don't like it either. Gives me a hell of a headache. Those two have a lot of explaining to do when they get up."

"They're dead," said the Headmaster, "They're not going to get up. I saw them hit with the killing curse myself."

"Well, they can't stay dead forever," said France.

"No, they can stay dead forever. That's precisely what being dead means —"

Someone knocked on the door.

"He's here!"

Japan hurried over to peer out the door, to make sure it was Veneziano, to make sure that nobody was following him. After he was certain, Japan let him inside.

Italy immediately slipped a heavy-looking backpack off of his shoulders with a thud, unzipping it and digging through it, his green St. Mungoe's robes swirling around him.

"Ve, um, Goethe or Schiller?" asked Italy, visibly shaking but not crying for once.

"Try the Goethe first," suggested France.

"Do Russia first, he'll be easier, aru."

"S-so… he's, he's the Pushkin, right?"

"Yes! Hurry up, we've been waiting on you!"

"Waaah! G-give me a minute!" Italy cried, digging out a fat book at the bottom of the bag. He flipped hurriedly to a dog-eared page, scrambled to Russia's side, and began reading clumsy words that didn't sound familiar to Snape at all. He watched as Italy's fingers traced lines on the page, his voice trembling, everyone else watching intently at the corpse, watching as its pupils contracted and the capillaries at the surface of the skin began filling. The corpse's chest rose and fell heavily, and its eyes darted to see everyone standing around.

"My clothes," said Russia, "Get me my clothes."

"Clothes?"

"IScarf/i," he choked as emphatically as possible, and China dug for the white scarf in the pile of the four's clothes they'd left in the corner.

Meanwhile, Veneziano dug out a second book from his backpack and read out something that sounded very different but was no more understandable to the Headmaster.

"What sort of incantation is that?" asked Snape.

"Goethe," said France, "Schiller is too French. It wouldn't work."

Italy finished the page, turned to the next dog-eared page, and began reading again, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, his voice becoming more and more unsteady.

"I've never heard of this wizard, or Pushkin. How is it that his spells can bring the dead back to life?"

"Well…" France began.

"ISCARF/i," Russia barked.

"I'm trying to find it, aru! And why are there four sets of clothes back here, anyway? Whose is the extra?"

"What extra?" asked France. After about five pages of German poetry, Veneziano had given up, settling instead to lean onto the table and sob, Romano smacking him on the head even though he was beginning to cry, too.

"There are four pairs of pants here. One, two, three, four. Who's not wearing pants?" said China.

"There are four who came back," offered Japan, "America, Germany, Russia, and the Headmaster."

"No," said England, "the Headmaster wasn't here when they were changing, those can't be his pants."

Just beyond the Italies sobbing over a body, Russia trying to grab away the blanket over Germany to stave off the chill of Death, America was on the bed, finally stopping his pantomimed groaning and waving his arms wildly, trying to pantomime something else.

"Take off that spell, won't you?" asked England, and, Snape, still numb from the events of earlier, withdrew his i_silencio./i_

After a few moments of useless flailing, America realized that he could be heard, and cried, "iWe forgot what's-his-name!/i"

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	6. Not So Innocent

"Try the Schiller," said France, quietly, but the Italies couldn't hear him through their sobs. "It might work…" However, while the three of them were too engulfed in their grief, Snape took the opportunity to take the book from their hands.

"Goethe," Snape read on the cover. "Who is Goethe."

"A German poet," said England.

"A poet."

"One that Germany has been known to respond to," said England, huffing out smoke from his cigarette. Snape glanced down at the book Russia picked up and opened while waiting anxiously for his scarf.

"And Pushkin?"

"A beloved Russian poet," said England.

"And you expect me to believe that the dead can rise with mere poetry."

"Mere poetry!" Russia threw the book at Snape's head, Snape narrowly dodging. "Mere poetry!"

"It's best not to upset those who have just been resurrected," said Japan quietly, respectfully. "That is, it's not recommended if you value your health."

"Poetry can be a very powerful thing," said England.

"Powerful enough to raise the dead?"

"Certain dead, yes."

Snape gave him an incredulous look and picked up the book of Pushkin's poetry, as that was the one that had actually been successful. "What sort of dead?"

England bit his lip. He saw behind Snape's dark eyes something evil was brewing.

"Our dead. Don't get any ideas."

Snape opened the book to a dog-eared page and found exactly what one would expect from the cover — Russian poetry.

"Perhaps you don't understand. That book isn't special. It's just a book full of Pushkin's poetry. "

"_Your _dead," said Snape.

"Yes, well… you know about salamanders? The magic kind. Oh, of course you do, you probably had to deal with them all the time if students left burners on," said England. Finally, finally, China found the scarf buried under the pile of clothes and brought it over to Russia, who held it to his chest.

"Don't change the subject," said Snape. Russia kissed the scarf, and then grabbed onto China's hand to kiss his fingers.

"I'm not changing the subject," said England. "And, I'm guessing, you must know about Horcruxes too."

"These books are horcruxes." Snape almost dropped them as if they were on fire.

"I'm just asking, to make sure you're familiar with the idea that a soul can reside outside of a body."

"So the books are horcruxes."

"Only so far as a salamander's fire is a horcrux. You've tried to deal with salamanders without knowing the source of their fire, correct? It's a pain. You try to stomp on them and they keep brushing themselves off after a moment and begin running around again."

"Veneziano… why don't you try the Schiller," said France, kneeling down to Veneziano's side, his voice soft. He even took another book out of the backpack for him. "The Schiller…"

Russia finally hauled himself off from the table and dragged himself to the bed, completely ignoring America while taking it over.

"Hey, I was here first!"

"Hrrnpf," Russia grunted, settling himself close to the wall, wrapped thoroughly in the blanket.

"You are saying that your friends are salamanders," said Snape.

"I'm saying that nobody ever thought of the ramification of there naturally being creatures whose souls are housed outside of their bodies. The salamander is one. We're just another type," said England.

"And your souls are 'naturally' housed in these books?"

"No. Mine's in England."

"England is a large place."

"It's in England. It _is_ England."

"Your soul is England."

"That's exactly what I just said. And, I'm not afraid to tell you this, unlike a certain Dark Lord, because I'm confident that you can't destroy England."

And, for some reason, Snape knew that England had seemed familiar all this time, and knew that this had to be true, having been to England before.

"And the one we just revived is Russia, and the one on the table is, well, Germany."

"Germany still exists," said Snape, "And yet…"

"The only thing that can revive him is patriotic feelings… and… these have been very difficult for him for quite a while."

Snape stared at the corpse. There used to be two corpses, but now there was only one. The former corpse fought with America on the bed for the blanket, and eventually they begrudgingly decided to share it.

"France," said England, "Call Prussia. Tell him to take Germany back home."

"We haven't tried the Schiller yet," said France.

"The Schiller never works," said England, "You know that. He knew this risks of this operation, but he begged to join us so much that I had to allow him. So stop your blubbering and call Prussia."

"I can't believe you," said Snape.

"What? The Schiller never does work," said England.

"I believe Headmaster Snape is incredulous of the idea that beings, such as ourselves, can possibly exist without some sort of dark magic involved," said Japan.

"Well, Mr. Snape, do you think that we're evil? Made of Dark Magic?"

"I just watched your men slaughter about forty people with my own eyes. Not kill. _Slaughter._"

"Oh."

"With g_uns._ All of them were killed with holes in them made with _guns._"

"I guess that seems a little evil."

"Innocent students. Slaughtered. With guns."

"Like I said, a little evil."

"You have all the power the Dark Lord wants. Killing machines, immortality—"

"Not immortality. If England were to cease to exist, I would be done for."

"—As I've said, immortality, loyal followers. The Dark Lord should be begging to have you at his side."

"He did, once," said England, "A long time ago, once he figured out who I was. I turned him down like I turned down Dumbledore's continuous offers to join the Aurours. Usually, the wizarding world has little to do with my loyalties, so I just told Riddle no and let him go, but I see now that I should have killed him for your insolence."

"You're a monster. England is a monster."

"I don't like these deaths at all, but there's nothing I can do about them now, seeing as they're dead, as you say, so there's nothing more I can say, Headmaster."

"The Order merely disagreed with your actions before — now they will hate you. You're its enemy, too, now."

"I wish them good luck, then," said England, "If they'd had such trouble with the Dark Lord, I can't imagine the troubles they'll have with me."

"Though, I believe that the Headmaster may be a bit mistaken in his assumption that all of those students were innocent. If they were so innocent, why would both Russia and Germany have been hit by killing curses, and America with the cruciatus?" said Japan, "Could it be, perhaps, that the tavern's patrons were not so innocent after all?"

"One of them threatened us first," said Russia from the bed, "And once we shot him they began firing."

"Is that so?" said England.

"Yes," said Russia, "So. It is not entirely our fault."

"You fired first," said Snape.

"No, Germany fired at the blond boy's balls first. This was in self-defense to a threat, which, as America will say, he definitely followed through on. So, it is, in truth, their own fault."

"Headmaster, is this true?" asked England.

"They fired into a crowd of students."

"Students who were not afraid to use cruciatus and killing curses," said Japan.

"Guys, have we forgotten about whats-his-name again?" asked America, "You know, the one we lost at the Hog's Head?"

"Who?" asked China.

America sighed and curled up under the blanket. "You know what, never mind."

For a moment, everyone watched America to see if he would press the subject, but when he didn't everyone went back to either mourning over Germany or confronting the Headmaster.

"So," said England, "We fired on students, but these were armed, combative students. And either way, what you or I know doesn't matter. The crooked wizard newspapers will print their crooked stories, calling for our blood, but either way they're not going to get us. We're going to continue with our plan of action, and there's nothing the Dark Lord or the Order can do about it. What you decide to do, however, is your own choice."

"I have standards, Mr. England," said Headmaster Snape.

"And those are very fine things for people to have," said England, crushing out his cigarette, "Would you like me to see you to the door?"


	7. God Save The Queen

I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia OR Harry Potter OR Inglourious Basterds. If I did though…

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Body bags. There were too many of them. Some of the bodies had been claimed, but for the most part, they would just be known as a part of the 'Hog's Head Massacre'. Some of the sacks were quite short, even. Children.

This is why the gravedigger sung.

"_Confound their politics,_

_Frustrate their knavish tricks,_

_On Thee our hopes we fix,_

_God save us all…"_

And he continued on humming, like he didn't know the rest of the words. Really, there was nothing left to do. Especially for dead children, there was very little left to do. The parents would sob and cry when all one could do was sing.

He started on a new hole with a shovel that picked up three times its capacity when one of the bags meant for this grave began to move. Well, that was curious, all of the things in the bags were supposed to be dead. He prodded the bag with a shovel. Maybe a raccoon or something had gotten in there, maybe whoever was in there had gotten killed in the middle of chewing and still had a tasty morsel in its throat.

Hey, it was possible.

"Shoo, shoo," the squib gravedigger mumbled.

"'M tryin' but it's dark…" said the bag.

The gravedigger's eyes widened.

"A live one?"

"I'm alive, of course I'm alive —"

"Well, you might want to get up off that pile of dead'uns, then."

"Dead… ah!" it shrieked.

"And make your way over to the pile o' live'uns, because the dead'uns are getting incinerated pretty soon —"

"Waaah where!"

"Oi, oi, it's all right. So uh… they missed you, didn't they?"

"Missed… missed me what?"

"Among the survivors, or… maybe they didn't look for survivors. Either way, you shouldn't be here if you're still a live'un."

The burlap sack tried to roll itself off the pile.

"That's okay though. Lucky you got up now, otherwise I would'a buried you and then it wouldn't'a mattered… Just let me, ah…" he dropped his shovel for a moment and walked over to the pile of bags, undrawing the string on the one that was wriggling around.

"Better?"

The person inside, pale and cold and bloodied, flinched away from the light.

"Uh…"

"That's sure an accent you have there. Where you from?"

"Canada," said Canada.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said, because, he realized, if he had actually not been a part of the Commonwealth, he would have probably been six feet under right about now.

"Because I'm pretty sure you're that American with an invisibility cloak and a big reward on your head," said the gravedigger. "And that you're worth a pretty penny."

"Wait — no I'm not! I'm Canadian!"

"They all say that," said the gravedigger, tying the bag back up, and with rigor mortis having long since set in, Canada could only struggle weakly against it. The gravedigger shoved the bag off of the pile, saying, "I'm saving you for later."


	8. Just Hiding

Note: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia OR Harry Potter OR Inglourious Basterds. If I did though…

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"_Difibrilo,"_ said Italy, tapping his wand (hawthorn, 22 cm, salamander bone, springy) to Germany's chest. This wouldn't resurrect him, it wouldn't even turn him into an inferius, but this did force certain mechanical biological processes to happen. What the spell was meant to fix was cardiac arrest, and it certainly did. Soon after, on the table, Germany's skin began to turn blue.

Everyone else had long since left, having to go somewhere else, not telling Italy where, because he was a 'risk'. Always a risk, that's why they kept him hidden at St. Mungo's, working as a nurse at the Janus Thickey Ward, where nobody would bother to look for dangerous subversives. Italy had wanted to — no, needed to — help, but there was apparently nothing he could do except "hide in plain sight." That's what England had said, and that was the best hiding place. Germany, also, needed to be hidden in plain sight, at least until Prussia could get to Britain and pick up his little brother.

Germany had turned a soft, unoxygenated blue. Italy gathered up his books and put them in his backpack, putting the backpack on his front and trying to pick up Germany onto his back. Germany, though, was so, so heavy…

"Ve…" Italy muttered, the corners of his eyes still watery, but now mostly red from sobbing. Italy had to do something about this even though Germany couldn't be dead forever, no matter how much he couldn't enjoy Goethe or Schiller. It was impossible for Germany to be dead as long as there was still Germany. He wasn't dead, his soul was just… hiding.

Yes, that was it.

Italy took a deep breath as he began down the stairs, trying to keep his balance. With Germany like this, he wouldn't be able to apparate back to St. Mungo's, or even use the floo powder — either way he'd surely loose Germany. But there had to be a way to get him back.

"E-excuse me," said Italy halfway down the stairs, "Help, my friend, he was hurt so —"

Italy noticed that nobody roused from their chairs. Oh, yes, this was Britain. Nobody noticed anything. Stiff upper lip and that.

"Somebodyyyyy!" Italy whined as he stumbled down the last few steps and fell flat on his face at the bottom, his stomach slamming over the stack of books in the backpack, Germany completing the sandwich. "Waaaaah!"

Finally, the innkeeper walked over, prodding first Germany's blue body with his foot, and then jabbing his foot at the one underneath it. When he noticed that the second one twitched away, he asked, "Yes, yes, what is it?"

"M-my friend, he was, he was stunned… a lot… so he needs help…"

"Your friend is blue," said the innkeeper.

"B-but he still has a pulse! We need to get him back to St. Mungo's fast!" Italy tried to fake urgency. He liked to think that he was doing a pretty good job of it. "How can I get — please…"

The innkeeper frowned. "Well," he said, "I have a house elf if you need someone to take both of you —"

"Oh could you? Please? Please, I—"

"Alright alright! Just quiet!" he nearly yelled, only then everyone in the inn craned their heads over to see what was happening, finally, but by then it was too late. "Blinky, over here!"

Out of the kitchen came a small, stooped figure, very small and very stooped, with a crooked nose and crooked ears. "What does Master need?"

"You do know where St. Mungo's is? The hospital."

"Of course Blinky knows."

"These two men need to go there," said the innkeeper.

"Blinky can take," said Blinky, "Blinky can take right now." Italy didn't have a chance to agree or disagree, and instead felt bony fingers wrapping almost completely around his wrist, and with a flash of light and a yank he was dropped on the floor of St. Mungo's lobby, on top of the stack of poetry books, Germany flopping on top of him just after, Italy letting out a squeal of pain.

"Thank you Mister Elf Sir —" but before his words could reach the elf's gigantic ears, the elf had popped out of existence.

Unlike at the inn, where people were completely indifferent, the healers at St. Mungo's were paid to care, and immediately rushed Italy, taking Germany away. As of right now, Germany still had a heart beat. It was artificial, but it was there, which would protect him, at least for a little while. Italy was pulled up, separated from him, the books still strapped to his stomach in the back pack. Even though Germany was dead, they couldn't just bury him, because to them he would have a pulse. They would try to force breath into him futilely as long as that spell held, but they wouldn't, couldn't bury him.


	9. Green Eyes

I do not own Inglourious Basterds OR Harry potter OR Axis Powers Hetalia. If I did, though…

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They sat in a nearly empty muggle coffee shop but reading a wizard newspaper. This seemed safest for them, even though for the past month they had not been able to find any Snatchers to ambush and scalp. This was disappointing. Either the Snatchers had wisened up and started avoiding the "Mudbloods," or they had wisened up and stopped snatching all together. England took a sip of tea and turned to the back of the iDaily Prophet/i, looking at the "wanted" section. Undesirables one through eleven were still there, but nearly everyone's prices had doubled since the last time he had checked.

"There are only eleven, aru," said China, pointing. The border of Mudbloods around the first three Undesirables had shrunk. "There were twelve last time, right?"

"There were twelve," said Romano, "Look, there's an empty spot. Who was in that one?"

"There was someone there?" asked England.

"He might not have been one of ours," said France.

"No, he was, it's just…" America muttered, but then sat back, "I don't know. Gives me a bad feeling."

"I think after what happened to Germany, we should not go by 'impressions' and 'bad feelings'," said Japan, folding back his muggle newspaper and setting it on the table. As soon as it hit the fake granite, though, England spotted the headline and snatched it away.

"There was a sniper at Whitehall?" asked England, staring at the front page.

And again, thoughts of whatever-his-name-was had cleared from everyone's minds.

"Apparently," said Japan. England turned to the main page of the article and read.

"Well," said England, grimacing, "That explains my heartburn last night." According to the article, patrols throughout London were stepped up. He slumped back in his seat.

"Are you all right, England-san?" asked Japan.

"I am just thinking… while we're doing this, we can't forget the muggles. Or… or everyone else. You've all been keeping track of your home countries, too, right?"

"You moron, we haven't had a chance to since we got here!"

"It's not as if we can have newspapers or anything sent as we're moving so much," said France bitterly. "The only thing we've had to go on is our bodies."

"Well, I suppose that's all any of us have to go on," said England. "Though. All of you do have obligations. If you need to attend to them… go."

"We aren't leaving, aru," said China.

"I can't keep you if you're needed elsewhere."

"We're needed here."

England took a deep breath. "All right then."

America sipped his coffee and tore their copy of _The Daily Prophet_, trying to tear out the article of the 'massacre' at the Hog's Head. The headline said that there had been 43 fatalities, and that was enough to earn the title of massacre.

The picture of a minister on the other side of the page locked into a silent scream as its face was torn in half.

"What are you doing?" England hissed.

"Taking the article," said America.

"Don't do that! It's suspicious."

"Why?"

"It's like — it's a trophy. We don't take trophies."

"Isn't that exactly what the scalping is about?"

"_SHHHH_!" hissed Japan.

"We leave the scalps _there_," whispered England harshly, "Now leave it. That looks suspicious enough —"

The bell at the coffee shop's door tinked. Everyone froze as several someones walked into the coffee shop. if one was in a position to see the door, one could see that they all looked very out of place at the muggle coffee shop, as they were all wielding sticks.

Romano growled at them, baring his teeth, and whoever had come in fled the cafe like frightened rabbits, the door's bell tinkling again behind them.

In probably not the wisest decision, England had been sitting with his back facing the door.

"Was that who I thought it was?" asked England, refusing to turn.

Romano sucked in his lip.

"They recognize us," said China.

"That's bad," said England.

"But they fear us," said Russia.

"And that is…" For a moment, England's eyes met another pair of green eyes, a pair belonging to a teenager sitting at the table across from theirs. His face was a blanched white, along with his two companions. Almost in unison, they stood, and left, not even bothering to bust their mugs.

"And… they were who I thought they were?" asked England, nodding in the direction the three teenagers had left.

"Who were who you thought they were?" asked France.

"You were looking right at them, the ones at the other table!" said England.

"England, there was nobody in particular at that table. There's no need to get paranoid about it, aru," said China.

"You would think that you had just seen Canada or something," said France.

"Who?" asked America.

"Hmm?" France broke off a piece of his biscotti.

"It just sounded like you said something important," said America.

France only stared back. "What were we talking about again?"

"Oh, never mind. It probably wasn't."


	10. Exactly Like A Canada

I do not own Inglourious Basterds OR Harry Potter OR Axis Powers Hetalia.

Also, you guys are awesome for commenting. Thanks!

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It took a while for Ollivander and Luna to realize they had company during their stay in the Malfoy's basement. This was because their company was still kept in a bag. The bag didn't look like the meager food allowed to them, so they figured that whatever was in that bag was either something bad or something not important enough to be bothered with. This idea persisted for a while, that the bag was not something to be handled, perhaps for days — it was impossible to tell underground.

It wasn't until the bag said "I'm… getting a bit hungry" did they notice its existence again.

"You heard that, didn't you, Mr. Ollivander?" asked Luna.

"I didn't hear anything," said Ollivander.

"The bag, it spoke. Maybe it's a bag-hermit elf," said Luna, "If that's the case, it will be in need of a bigger bag soon. I've never heard of them get so big, though…"

"Please? Food?" asked the bag quietly. "Is there… any?"

"Don't go," said Ollivander. "If he's in a bag, they probably want to keep him in one."

Luna stood up anyway and walked on tired, thin legs over to the bag.

"Mr. Elf," she said, kneeling down next to it, "We don't have food at the moment… and when we get it we don't get a lot… but moreover, I'm afraid if we fed you, you would get bigger and no longer fit in your bag, and there aren't any bigger bags for you to fit in."

"Mnotanfef," the bag responded.

"Mr. Bag Elf, I'm sorry I don't understand Elfish… you'll have to speak English," said Luna. "You know some, and you sounded pretty fluent. Don't be embarrassed if you don't know all the words."

"I'm not an elf!" said the bag a bit louder.

"Then what are you doing in that bag?"

"It's a body bag! I'm supposed to be a corpse!"

Luna frowned. "But corpses don't talk," she said, "And they most certainly don't get hungry. What a very strange corpse you are."

"I'm not a corpse, I'm just supposed to be one. I'm alive!"

"Maybe he's a vampire," said Ollivander, "but either way, you shouldn't open the bag.

"Are you a vampire?" asked Luna.

"Wh-what?"

"It's all right if you are, it's nothing to be ashamed of," said Luna. "It's not so bad being a vampire as it used to be. There are a lot of opportunities for vampires now."

"I'm not a vampire, I'm a Canada," said Canada.

"He must be one of that gang that likes to kill those Snatchers," said Ollivander, "They say they call each other from what countries they come from. So, they must have finally caught one… don't open the bag, Luna. He's probably dangerous."

It was too late, Luna was already untying the straps at the top. "A Canada, you say? How curious. Like the country?"

"Luna!"

She rolled the top of the bag down as soon as the knot was undone, staring at the bruised face and split lip that greeted her from inside the bag.

"A Canada," said Luna.

"Umm, yes," said Canada. If possible, her eyes widened even more in delight.

"Oh, Mr. Ollivander, we're sharing a dungeon with a _Canada_!"

"A Canada?" asked Ollivander, "You mean, the country?"

"Yes, exactly like the country! Oh, just look at him! An honest Canada! I never thought I'd see one!"

Canada stared up at the dungeon's ceiling, past Luna's head, in bemusement. He'd told quite a few mortals his true identity and he had never gotten this sort of reaction before.

Ollivander finally got up from his spot slumped on the floor and limped over to Luna and the 'Canada.'

"He doesn't look like a Canada to me," said Ollivander, staring down at Canada critically. "Poor boy's probably been victim to the crutacius one too many times."

"But he looks _exactly like_ a Canada! Haven't you ever seen a map?"

"Yes dear, I've seen a map. Recent ones, even."

"Then you can see it, can't you? He looks just like a Canada, you can even see all the provinces and territories!"

It was only then that Canada realized that underneath the bag, he was completely naked, probably stripped during the autopsy or whatever wizards did to confirm their dead.

"Aah!" Canada pulled the bag up to his neck.

"It's okay," said Luna, "it's not exactly a secret to anyone who looks at a map."

"Luna!"

"It's true though, isn't it?" asked Luna, "Though, I can understand if you like your privacy."

Canada blushed as he thought of the atlas he hid under his mattress. "Uhh…"

Luna smiled. "That's what I thought, Mr. Canada."


	11. The Janus Thickey Ward

I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia OR Inglourious Basterds OR Harry Potter. If I did, though…

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Legilimency, though turned into a dirty word between the Dark Lord's regimes, had not always been so. There had been a time, long ago, when people actually trusted each other with each other's secrets, and used it in the healing process rather liberally. These days, however, the art was strictly controlled, and only used in a small number of circumstances, such as attempts to rouse individuals from coma or catatonia, to confirm brain death, to attempt salvage after severe damage from memory charms or the imperius curse, and it could sometimes be approved to soothe extremely distressed patients if all other methods had been tried.

Italy had heard about these policies through listening to what the healers wanted to do with — _for_, probably, for, because it was not with ill intent — Germany. After the first week or so, Germany's bluish color had faded, only leaving him pale. Italy thanked God for letting him revive so fast, because otherwise they would have thrown him away like so much refuse, burying him. But then, a while after that, Germany still lay, getting thinner and thinner, unable to get up. There were a lot of new patients in St. Mungos because of the war, and more and more healers thought that he must be dead behind those closed eyes and barely beating heart. They thought this because he didn't look like a sleeping person. He looked like a dead person whose eyes had been closed, the person mothers tell their children "is only sleeping."

Fortunately or unfortunately, the approval for the use of legilimency on him was taking a long time, also because of the war. The Ministry had much more important things to approve than some probably-brain-dead man's legilimency inspection. Either way, Italy was glad. The thoughts that kept Germany from waking were probably very, very, very bad thoughts. They were always very, very, very bad thoughts, ones that Germany didn't like to talk about. Sure, he would mention the events, how horrible they were for other people. There would be shame in his voice, but he never revealed the feelings behind them, burying them under a thick blanket of regret to hide everything. Those would be the thoughts swirling around the surface, the ones a legilimens would have to break through in order to rouse him from "coma" if they tried.

He felt very sorry for that poor legilimens, whoever it would be.

Italy wondered if such a thing would even work. First and foremost, Germany was a nation, with such vast quantities of memories that a legilimens would be flooded with as soon as they broke through to him. Secondly, he was a muggle. Not a squib like those North American twins, but an honest Muggle, like France. They'd had to take a huge round of potions and submit to a million charms to even get this far into the wizarding world. What would happen if they were found out?

Oh, no, it was best not to think about things like that. After all, the Ministry was too busy to sign a release to check if a man was actually braindead or just in a coma. The Ministry was trying to begin a new evil reign, so things like this would get absolutely no attention. Small mercies, but mercies, nonetheless.

Italy ran his hand down Germany's cheek. It was still so cold despite the now-oxygenated blood flowing through the capillaries. There had to be some charms or something that Italy could use to make Germany more comfortable when he finally woke up —

"Feliciano!" said a Healer in the charms floor of the hospital. That's where they'd put him, because apparently he looked like he had been hit by far, far too many stunning spells. "Your lunch break is over, and you're needed back in the Thickey ward! Mrs. Longbottom swallowed something she thought was candy again."

"So, it wasn't candy?"

"Of course it wasn't, if it was candy you wouldn't be called!"

"Not again!" cried Italy, picking up his clipboard from Germany's table and began to hurry off, but the healer stopped him with just a few words.

"You shouldn't worry about your friend. He's in good hands, and you have work to do. Now, off, shoo!"

Italy began to run to the Janus Thickey ward, knowing that good hands were pretty useless when they were clutching a grenade tightly.


	12. Muddblood

I do not own Inglorious Basterds OR Axis Powers Hetalia OR Harry Potter

There was something that muggles knew that wizards, apparently, didn't, and that was that confessions and intelligence obtained under torture were usually inaccurate. It was in human nature to say anything to get the pain to stop. Of course, most muggles who used torture didn't care. It wasn't their purpose to procure information, or, if it was, it was only a secondary aim. For the most part, muggles tortured simply because they enjoyed torturing, or, less commonly, it was because the torturee liked to _be_ tortured. Sometimes, during the sessions, he would think of France and Germany. If either of them were in his place, they would probably be getting off on this. He imagined their moans and cries, only begging for mercy when it stopped.

He honestly hoped they weren't actually using his information. He couldn't even imagine how _stupid_ they would be if they had. The nations (the Mudbloods, as the Death Eaters called them), wouldn't stay in the same place twice, never staying anywhere for longer than a day, so any actual information Canada had was long out of date. They would torture Canada, Canada would confess wrong information, Snatchers would look but wouldn't be able to find anything (or more likely, wouldn't bother to look because they were so terrified, and then say they couldn't find the Mudbloods), and then they would torture Canada again. It was a futile, useless, pointless cycle, which was why only muggles who actually wanted information had, for the most part, decided to stop using torture to get it.

However, Canada was learning a second thing about torture, something that had never been outlined in the new rules of war — and that was how quickly torture desensitized.

For the last five — days, was it? There was no way to tell in the basement or the windowless room he was tortured in — well, the last five times, he had managed to get through without saying a word, and honestly, it was only getting easier. By now, it was so easy for him that the next time Bellatrix Lestrange pointed her wand and said "Crucio!" at him, Canada felt nothing.

Well, feeling nothing at all wasn't exactly true. Without fail, the cruciatus curse caused his body excruciating pain, causing him to writhe and forcing him to scream, but his mind really could no longer care. What his body experienced was like the woman crying out in the apartment next to his whenever her husband beat her — surprisingly easy to ignore through a thin, thin wall.

Mrs. Lestrange had gotten her knife again, and had begun carving into his arm again, another futile pursuit. Mrs. Lestrange couldn't figure out why, even with an enchanted blade, the wounds would heal within a week, so she did it again, and again, and again. Perhaps Canada should be grateful for the carving, then — it was the most accurate track of time he had in this place.

Canada's body screamed, Bellatrix seemed to enjoy herself, but Canada himself remained indifferent. It didn't make very much sense to him, as Ollivander had told him many, many times how he shouldn't resist because extended exposure to the cruciatus curse was known to cause insanity. Then again, perhaps this distance was insanity. He would have to ask Russia later.

"Where is the cloak?" asked Bellatrix Lestrange. Hissed, more like. She always hissed, along with everyone else in this damn place. It was rather getting on Canada's nerves. The curse stopped for long enough for Canada to speak.

"Cloak?"

"You know the cloak, the cloak of invisibility!" she hissed again. Oh, that thing, the thing they kept asking about that he had never heard of before he came here. Of course he had no idea, but they never liked 'I don't know' as an answer.

"Maybe," said Canada, his voice hoarse from screaming that he was only vaguely aware of doing, "Maybe I shoved it up my ass. Have you checked there?"

Bellatrix shrieked in frustration and attacked again, the curse that much more intense, and resumed her carving. Blinded by anger, she'd accidentally put three 'd's in 'mudblood,' making it now 'muddblood'. Canada would have laughed if his mouth wasn't so busy screaming.


	13. Nothing's Wrong

Note: I don't own Harry Potter OR Inglorious Basterds OR Axis Powers Hetalia.

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Probably the only thing that made Canada happy now was watching Luna eat. When the Death Eaters had brought down food that day, they had taken Mr. Ollivander away, so at the moment it was just him and her. He could take his mind off of what was happening to Mr. Ollivander by watching Luna eat whatever tasteless slop they had given the both of them.

Luna pushed the second bowl towards Canada, but Canada shook his head.

"You are watching me like you're hungry," said Luna, "And I've never seen you eat."

"Nations don't need to eat," said Canada. And that, in the strictest sense, was true. They couldn't be killed by not eating, so they often stopped eating on the battlefield to save rations. However, that didn't mean that they didn't enjoy eating, that they didn't feel hunger, that they didn't function better when they ate — merely that eating to live wasn't essential.

"I guess that would make sense," said Luna, taking another sip of her slop. No spoons. They probably thought it was too dangerous to give them spoons. Canada and his group had managed to kill so many with only muggle weapons, so imagine the damage he could do with a spoon! He almost snorted with laughter. "Though, you always say, 'Nations don't need this, don't need that'… even I'm beginning to find it difficult to believe."

"It's true, though, that Nations don't need much." She should have been eating. Let her sip from that bowl, come on. This was the only thing he had to look forward to all day. This was the only thing he had to keep him from thinking of Mr. Ollivander screaming upstairs. This was all, so why didn't she —

"Then, what do Nations need?"

"They need… they need the belief of their people," said Canada. At least, that was the fluffier version. One could live off the military subjugation of their people, or whatever cruel things that were human rights violations, but they liked to believe that they could live off of the mandate of the people. They could dream.

"Is that all?"

"More or less, yes," said Canada.

Luna frowned. "Then it must be hard, being so far away from home. Would you like me to do something Canadian to make you feel better?"

"N-no, I'm fine," said Canada. Why wasn't she eating? The slop would turn from lukewarm to cold at this rate, not that that would exactly stop her from finishing it eventually. "To be honest, this isn't the worst that's happened to me. Not nearly."

He lied. He hadn't exactly been a prisoner of war before, unlike most of the others. But then again, at least he wasn't full of shrapnel. He figured that few times he had been full of shrapnel had probably been worse.

"What do you do when things are worse than this?"

And because he'd lied, Canada didn't really have an answer. He managed to get through them somehow, but when you need multiple surgeries prying out pieces of metal from your abdomen, at least you know that they are trying to help. At least when you're in the trenches you, god willing, have a gun. At least…

He pulled the bag he'd been dumped into the basement up to his neck. For whatever reason, they still hadn't seen fit to give him clothes, and though so long without clothes tended to make one much less modest, the basement was still cold.

"Yes?"

In a vague way, Canada knew that his body was angry with him, angry for him ignoring it and saying that its pain wasn't important. Of course it was important. Canada could be sweet, could be ever-forgiving, but his body, cut off from the rest of him, demanded vengeance.

"I slept as much as I could," said Canada, though right now, he had a feeling something bad would happen if he slept. When the body was so angry, not just hurt and tired but angry, sleep was rarely restful.

"Oh," she said, probably hoping for something a little more helpful. "Well, I've been trying something new."

"Something new," said Canada. He'd tried to keep his hair from matting, he tried to do some exercise to keep his strength up, but all the while Luna had been focusing on something different, staying still against a wall, her eyes closed, her breathing even.

"You can try it too," said Luna, "I've… I've found it makes the curses not so bad…"

"I can't do magic," said Canada, "At all. I've told you that."

"I don't think it's magic," said Luna, "Just try it, won't you?"

It was Canada's turn to frown as Luna set down the slop in front of her. Maybe she was trying to save it for Mr. Ollivander. Or, maybe, Mr. Ollivander was not coming back.

"Close your eyes," said Luna. Canada did, and he saw the inside of his eyelids, black in the low light.

"Remember to breathe."

Because remembering to breathe was not the same as actually breathing. Canada remembered. He breathed, and the air in the basement was crisp and cold and smelled like it hadn't been cleaned in too long.

"Think of… think of a forest," said Luna, and it sounded like she was making this up as she went along. "A Canadian forest. With Canadian forest animals. There are frogs making croaking noises. And squirrels making chittering noises. Geese making honking noises. And, elk… making elk noises."

Canada tried to think of elk making elk noises, but when that didn't work he went back to the frogs and the squirrels and the geese.

"And there's sunlight streaming through the tree branches. The branches flick whenever squirrels or birds jump off of them. It's early autumn, so the leaves have just started to change color, but it's not too cold out."

For a moment, Canada could even imagine that the air didn't smell so rotten.

"And then you're by a brook, and it's making babbling sounds, the sounds of water going over rocks. It's very pretty and clear. Old leaves crunch beneath your feet as you sit down by it."

Old leaves crunched. He sat by the brook, and he put his hands in the water. The water was cool, like the air.

"There are little minnows in the water…"

But there was more than little minnows in the water. There was also Bellatrix Lestrange's face. Canada was holding it there, pushing her head down under the water's surface by her neck. She tried to struggle, but she was weak from the lack of oxygen. Whenever she was nearly limp, Canada let her up for just a gasp of air, and then promptly shoved her head back under water again.

Little minnows weaved around in the water just above her face. When she screamed silently underneath the water's surface, they even swam around her mouth.

"Is something wrong?" asked Luna.

Canada remembered to breathe.

"Nothing," he said, "Nothing at all."


End file.
